


Sending My Regards

by DisappearingKangaroo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Hurt John, Smoke inhalation is a bitch, a bit of Donovan, some Hurt Sherlock, why do they always get kidnapped, yet another kidnapping fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-27 10:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13246254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisappearingKangaroo/pseuds/DisappearingKangaroo
Summary: While trying to solve a case, John, Sherlock, and Lestrade gets kidnapped by Moriarty's goons. When waking up in a barn, they must find their way out, even with an injured John! Plenty of hurt John because I'm just that person.Cross posted on ff.net under DisappearingKangarooDisclaimer: I don't own anything (but my imagination)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends just to let you all know this fic is completed, so do not fret :) Also- it's not beta'd, so tell me my mistakes

~John~

 

For the first time in a long while, a case came to them, not vice versa.

It was from angry (and slightly psychotic) relatives of someone from a past case. Neither John or Sherlock cared to remember, after all, they go through many cases. These were relatives of a past client, who wanted to outsmart Sherlock Holmes. The client, Danny Linfout, had come to the famous 221B flat about a case. After a day of research, Sherlock had successfully figured out the murderer. It was Danny. After figuring that getting away with a murder wasn’t enough, he went to Sherlock to try and trick him. He quite obviously overestimated himself.

Of course the duo failed to realize that these relatives were powerful, not afraid to take a chance, and had somewhat of a gang behind their intentions. Well, Sherlock realized it (obvious, John!), but since it had no direct correlation to the case, he deleted it. And John? He never even knew of these facts.

Which brings to duo to an alley, to do a favor for Greg Lestrade (“Boring John, I do enough favors solving his cases that those imbeciles can’t solve!”). When John and Sherlock arrive, Greg is already there waiting. He and John make light conversation, while Sherlock is already inspecting the bricks on the alley wall.

None of the three knows what to look for, except that a witness said there was an attack here.

“Found anything Sherlock?” John asks, turning away from the DI.

“‘Found anything?’ Such a broad question, John. A more logical question would be to ask me if I had found an evidence relative to the case.” Barely pausing, he continues, “Because yes, I have found something, but that something is that two -no- three people… Presumably men… Yes men, were smoking-” He sniffs the air “hm, just cigarettes. But no, this does not have to do with Gavin’s case.” Sherlock concludes, even more annoyed at John for dragging him down here,  when there wasn’t even a case.

As Greg asserts an “Oi!”, John sighs and says, “Why do I even ask” simultaneously.

Sherlock stands up from his crouched position saying, “I do believe that your witness was lying, Gavin.

“Oh Christ Sherlock! For the last time it’s  _ Greg _ !”

“What?”

“My name, it’s Greg!”

“Oh.” Sherlock says. “Irrelevant. As I was saying, your witness must’ve been lying, seeing as how no one was here that attacked anyone…” Sherlock trails off, looking at the walls. “Oh. Oh!”

“What?” John asks, also looking at the wall, knowing full well that he can not see what Sherlock sees in this alley.

“It seemed that he have been tricked, yes… Indeed. Executed quite marvelously executed as well. It took multiple people to do so, in order to trick us, that is.

And as if on cue, a new voice came from the mouth of the alley. “I guess you are really as good as they say.” A male voice booms, with a startling effect to John and Greg. Sherlock just simply turns around to face him, like an old friend.

“Why yes, obviously” Sherlock counters, unfazed by the man.

John just sighs, “Sherlock, just be quiet for once.”

“Yes yes,” another voice says “listen to your boyfriend.”

At this John throws his arms up in defeat “He’s not-  _ we’re _ not-!” A pause “I’m  _ not  _ gay!”

“Right well, we don’t really care” Yet another voice emerges. “All we care about is causing you Hell.” And even in the dim moonlight, the two detectives and the army doctor could see his twisted smile.

In an instant, the first man pulled out a handgun and fired. Greg and Sherlock both immediately drop down, to avoid getting hit while John flattens himself against the alley wall.

Cursing at himself for not keeping his gun on him at all times, John lunges forward to man number one, in an effort to disarm him.

Men two and three pass John and go after Sherlock and Greg, with some type of needle in their hands, which John knows can only mean bad news.

John successfully throws the gun from the attacker’s  hand, while trying to throw a punch. After almost a full minute of harsh fighting, the man gets the upperhand (“Curse my height!”) and pushes John into the ground. While falling, John realizes that Greg and Sherlock must be at least partially okay, since men two and three have not helped man one yet.

After a few forceful kicks to his ribs, John curls up, hoping to at least somewhat protect his already bruised midsection. To his dismay, he feels a few ribs cave in. In a last attempt, John turns over to crawl away, when a particularly hard kick hits the back of his left knee.

A sickening  _ crack!  _ fills the alley, but not for long, as John’s scream covers it.

And although John doesn’t know this, Sherlock stopped fighting, to turn and look at his blogger, while crying out, “John!”. Man number three (the one after Sherlock) takes advantage of the detective’s distraction, and unceremoniously plunges the syringe into the detective’s neck.

Also hearing the scream, Greg stops, looking over to see the good doctor (who is now sprawled on the ground grasping his knee), and  _ also  _ gets a syringe in his neck.

The men two and three, satisfied with their work, albeit with a few bruises, walks the short distance to John, still on the ground choking on sobs.

Across the alley the two detectives are already feeling the effects of the strange drug. If Sherlock’s mind wasn’t so muddled, he could probably figure out what drug it was, and the effects of said drug. The only thing he could deduce right now, was that it was extraordinarily fast acting, and some type of sedative. With one last cry of “John!”, which was only a whisper, he passed out. Only a few seconds went by before Greg joined him in the realm of unconsciousness.

The first man takes the gun off of the ground then crouches next to John. He leans in close, to the point where John feels his breath on his ear, and the man says, “I mean, we  _ could  _ drug you… But this is just so much more fun. After all, you are the reason that Danny is in jail.” John just sighs when he remembers this. Through his mind filled with pain, he remembers that case. Too little, too late.

The man turns the gun around, and right before he slams it into John’s head, he says “Moriarty sends his regards.”


	2. Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me you get the chapter title

~Sherlock~

 

Due to Sherlock’s recreational drug usage, he did not stay as unconscious as the captors wanted. When he awoke, into a drug induced haze, it was nearly impossible to deduce anything from his current predicament. But after a few minutes, Sherlock could tell that he was uncomfortably forced into the back of a large car, with two other people, presumably John and Graham. 

Now, to deduce the time. He went to the alley after the hours of John’s surgery (“For the last time Sherlock, I am  _ not  _ taking more time off to go solve crimes with you! We still have bills!”) and after they had dinner, so it was probably between 20.15 and 20.30. Unfortunately, Sherlock couldn’t shift enough to see the position of the moon outside of the car, so he didn’t know how much time had actually passed.

His wrists were bound together, with zipties (amateurs) in front of his body, which is quite the mistake among kidnappers. He wasn’t blindfolded, so the men probably assumed that they would all be out cold until their destination. Which brought up anothing thing- where is their destination?

Given by the speed that they are going (101.23 kph), their final location is probably quite the distance away. Careful to not make too much noise, Sherlock pokes the two other men, hoping that one of them wakes. Throughout the entire ride, Gavin did not stir at all, or show any signs of doing so. Within the first couple of minutes of Sherlock being awake, John made a few groans, and the detective believed that he would wake soon. Unfortunately, that was not the case. Looking over at his loyal blogger, Sherlock realizes that his face is in an almost permanent state of pain. And due to the almost half consciousness he is in…  _ Oh. John is not drugged, just simply passed out.  _ Which brings him to a new revelation. 

John is indeed seriously hurt. He heard the scream in the alley, the one that distracted him. He had never heard John scream like that. It was of a man in true pain. Perhaps he got shot! Sherlock quickly looks over John’s physical appearance, hoping that his hypothesis was false. To his relief, he saw no blood. Plus, he never heard a shot ring out in the alley. Which means that his blogger is hurt somewhere else. Unable to deduce anything more of John without making more noise, Sherlock lays his head back to its original position and begins to count the minutes.

They stay on this road for another 64 minutes, until they come to a stop. Neither John or Gavin woke during the ride. 

When Sherlock hears the doors to the car close, he plays limp, but his mind is still working at full capacity. Since it’s been about an hour of waking up, his mind is almost completely clear. He closes his eyes and lets the three men drag him out of the car. 

Through his eyelids, he can still tell that night is still here, and there is still some left. He lets himself be dragged across the ground, thinking of ways to escape. He knows that he can not take on three men by himself, when all of them possibly have other weapons. And then he would still be left with two unconscious colleagues.  _ No, friends _ . So the Consulting Detective just stays limp, feeling the rough ground underneath him. It feels like some sort of tall grass, with a few rocks mixed in.

Then, to Sherlock’s horror, he hears a pained cry from John. It takes all of Sherlock’s willpower to not grimace at John’s cries. In a small part of Sherlock’s mind he wishes that John would wake from these jostles, just so he knows that the doctor is alright. But John never wakes, it’s just his unconscious cries. Graham also seems to stay unconscious.  _ Hopefully not for long. _

After about 15 metres of constant dragging, the light going through Sherlock’s eyelids becomes considerably dimmer. The ground also becomes flatter. Deducing that he is now in a building, he hopes that the near constant groans from John will stop. 

Then, he stops moving altogether and is laid flat on his back. He hears two more thumps near him, which he assumes as John and Gavin. 

“We should honestly just kill em’” A voice says, and Sherlock recognizes it as the second man who originally talked.

The first man speaks up, “You heard what the guy said though. That Moriarty didn’t want them dead.”  _ Moriarty!  _ Sherlock knew this wasn’t an average revenge kidnapping.

“Yeah well who cares. What can this  _ Moriarty _ man even do?” The second man asks again.  _ Silly ignorant criminals. _

“I don’t really want to find out. Let’s just leave em’ here and go before they wake up, yeah?”  _ Smart man _ , Sherlock thinks.

“Fine mate. Though I don’t think that  _ Moriarty  _ could even figure out where we are, if we were to kill them.” He says ‘Moriarty’ like he’s not threatening. Fools.

The men must’ve settled on that decision, because soon a loud sound of doors closing was filling up his ears. He waited until he heard the engine start, then fade before opening his eyes.

Sherlock quickly stands up, getting a slight head rush, and then looks around him. It appears that he was in a barn. Such a silly little thing to be in. He didn’t even know many barns in the close vicinity of London. From the moonlight, he can almost make out the objects in the building, but the two most obvious things are the unconscious bodies of John Watson and Gr… Gav… Gavin Lestrade.

Sherlock is closer to Gavin, so he tries to rouse him first. “Gavin!” Sherlock slaps him lightly across the face. “Gavin!” He says louder. A groan escapes him. “Do wake up, it is costing more of my precious time than yours.” Sherlock calls out to him again. “Gavin!” 

“S-sod off, Sherlock.”

“Oh please, just wake up.” Sherlock says in an annoyed manner, even though he’s more than relieved to know that he’s alright.

Gavin finally opens his eyes. “It’s Greg. I told you that in the sodding alley! How did you already forget?!” 

“I deleted it. Please stop this emotion of agitation,  _ Greg _ , seeing as how that will most definitely not help our situation.”

“Where’s John?” Greg suddenly asks, looking around the barn.

“Over there” Sherlock says, point to John’s flattened form.

“Is he alright? I heard a scream, back at the alley-”

“Yes, yes, Lestrade” Sherlock says, waving him off “We all heard the scream. John appears to be passed out, but not from the drugs that we were so ungraciously given.”

“Poor guy.” 

“Yes indeed. Now, to cover all existing questions, we are in a barn at least 64 minutes away from London, if one was going 101 kilometres per hour. No, I do not know why we are here, except for one reason, which is Moriarty.”

“Moriarty? Christ. He’s really after you, isn’t he, Sherlock?”

“Excellent deducing skills, Lestrade.” Sherlock says, sarcastically.

Greg then stands up, overcoming apparent dizziness and walks over to John. “Hey mate. John? C’mon, don’t leave me having to listen to Sherlock.” But all he got in return was just a groan and a twitch of an eye.

“How did I not… Stupid,  _ Stupid _ !” Sherlock says, coming up next to Greg.

“What?”

“I didn’t notice before, when I regained consciousness in the car- Yes, car, Lestrade, how else do you think we got here?-” Sherlock says, answering a question that Greg didn’t even get to ask “As I was saying, I didn’t realize it in the car -must’ve been from the drugs- but John is wheezing. He must’ve been somehow hurt in the chest… But no, not just the chest, because the scream didn’t correlate with that… Hmm.”

Both Sherlock and Greg crouch down next to John, the wheezing now painfully obvious. Carefully, Sherlock lifts up John’s hideous jumper, and gasps simultaneously with Greg. His chest is littered with colourful bruises. 

“Oh God” Greg mutters to himself. 

Sherlock looks over to John’s face, which is now tightly pulled in a grimace. He then carefully, and with a gentleness Greg has never witnessed from Sherlock, puts his hands over the base of John’s ribcage. John emits a small cry of pain, but does not awaken. When Sherlock pushes down with the faintest of force, John’s eyes open accompanied by a shout.

“Christ!” John shouts at, scaring both Sherlock and Greg.

 

~John~

 

When John awakens, the first thing he feels is the burning in his chest, and the sharp pain in his knee. Then he realizes that Sherlock and Greg are standing -no- squatting next to him. 

“Sherl…?” John asks, even though he knows full well that yes indeed, it is his maniac of a flatmate.

“Yes, John, it is me. Now, what hurts other than your chest?”

“How’d you know” a grimace “that my chest hurts?” 

“It’s all quite elementary John, I will explain later. But please, what else hurts?”

John knew from the strain in his friend’s voice that something was obviously displeasing Sherlock. “Knee, left knee” He mutters out.

Greg pulls his trousers up to his thigh, and winces. “Doesn’t look good mate” He says, solemnly.

John tries to sit up, to see his knee, but due to the pain from his chest he immediately falls back down, which certainly doesn’t help the pain either. “Oh Christ” He wheezes out. He momentarily closes his eyes, in an effort to manage the pain.

“Do stop moving, John. It will only hurt more”

“Sod off, Sherlock” John smiles back at him, though Sherlock would’ve known it was not meant in a tight-fisted way, even without the smile. 

John then opens his eyes and brings up the hem of his jumper and tries to feel around his chest to know which ribs are broken. He is positive that at this pain, there’s at least one. 

“John, I don’t think that-” Greg starts.

“Shut it, I’m a doctor” Greg just sighs at that, not wanting to argue with the injured man anyway. 

John slowly feels his ribs, starting from the bottom. After only going up four ribs (two on the right, two on the left, and three of those collapsing underneath his touch) the pain is barely manageable. He goes up one more, which is by far the most painful and gasps. The gasp causes John’s chest to constrict, and he ends up being in more pain than he began in. Sherlock pulls John’s wrist away. 

“John, stop. Let me.”

“Sherlock,” Wince “I need to know... Which of my ribs are broken.” 

“I do know what a broken rib feels like, so I can just as well tell you which ones.” John does agree at that, and lets both of his arms fall down to the sides of his body.

“You alright, mate?” Greg asks, although he already knows the answer.

“Bloody great.” John sighs back.

“I am going to recommend you to stop talking, John. For it will only cause you further pain.”

“Yeah yeah, I get it Sherlock.” Sherlock just sighs, not bothering to point out that he just talked again there, to reply. 

He slowly applies pressure to each John’s ribs, wincing when one collapses, while John tries to stifle a groan.

“Five.”

“What?!” Greg exclaims, not knowing how John is even remotely okay, at having five broken ribs. John was lucky to not have any internal bleeding. At least as far as they know of.

“Five broken ribs, Lestrade.”

“Yeah, Sherlock, I know.” Greg sighs. “It was a rhetorical question.” 

“Those are pointless.”

“Oh sh-”

“Will you two stop bickering?” John calls from the floor, causing the two of them to look down.

“Sorry.” Greg says, feeling guilty.

“No no, it’s fine, it’s just…” John trails off, not really knowing where he was going with this sentence. He takes a breath before saying, “Alright, one of you help me up, I have to look at my leg.”

“Probably not the wisest choice, John” Sherlock puts out.

“I don’t really have any other choice.”

Greg just sighs. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah, I need to look at my knee. It feels fractured.”

“It certainly doesn’t look any better” Greg adds.

“Exactly. Help me up?”

There’s a few moments of the trio attempting to figure out the best way to go about this, until they agree on a plan, which is carrying John a few metres so he’s next to the wall, then propping him up against it, along with Sherlock’s belstaff coat, to make it at least a small amount more comfortable.

“Ready?” Greg asks John, glad that he isn’t in the doctor’s position.

“As I’ll ever be.” He replies. Then, with one swift motion, the two detectives pick up John and move him. John doesn’t even try to hide his pain. Luckily, it’s over quickly, and he is now sitting up, with Sherlock’s coat to steady him. 

Closing his eyes and taking deep breaths (as deep as his broken ribs will allow him) John manages the ever growing pain in his chest, and the still painful knee. He then opens his eyes to see the swollen joint.

“Ohhh.” John takes another deep breath and begins to prod his leg. Though he doesn’t get very far before he drops his arm and closes his eyes, begging his body to not pass out. 

“You quite obviously did not learn from your mistakes with the exercising involving your ribs, John.” Sherlock says, trying to mask his concern for his flatmate.

“Well, I do believe that it’s fractured.” John says, still not opening his eyes.

“What can we do with a broken knee in here?” Greg asks, now extremely glad he isn’t in John’s position.

“Somehow stabilize it. Keep it elevated to reduce swelling. Not much else.” The doctor says quietly.

“Alright, if that’s the only thing that we can do.” 

Sherlock then stands up and looks around the barn, trying to see as much as he can with the limited light. He finds a pile of fairly thin boards of wood and breaks them to appropriate sizes upon his thigh. When he comes back, John’s head is resting on the back wall, the coat somewhat acting as a pillow. 

“John” Sherlock says quietly, just incase by some miracle John was sleeping.

John opens his eyes, and looks at the two small pieces of wood that Sherlock is holding. Wordlessly, he nods his head, as if to say “That will work”. 

“Mmm. Okay.” John says, looking at the two other men. “So, Greg, hold and bend my leg so it’s at a slight angle, but just barely. Then Sherlock, arrange the boards so that they match the angle of my leg. Then take your scarf to secure it.” As an afterthought John adds, “Never been so happy for you to bring your bloody scarf around with you all the time.”

“Ready?” Greg asks, turning to Sherlock. He gets a nod in reply and bends John’s leg. Not too much, as instructed. The DI can’t help but feel guilty as John yells out in pain, but knows it’s for the best. After a few more moments the amateur procedure is over.

When Sherlock and Greg look back at John, he’s nearly passed out, with small beads of sweat on his face, which is twisted up in pain. 

“It’s fine John.” Sherlock says.

“What?” John replies, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Everything is fine. Just rest.”

“No, I need to help. We need to find a way out of here.”

This time Greg replies, “No John, you’re hurt. The most Sherlock and I have are just simply bruises. Practically already gone.” This was sort of a lie, seeing as how their bruises would not be fading for a while, but their injuries were certainly not as severe as John’s. 

“As long as you and Sherlock sleep somewhere.”

Sherlock scoffs to that and says, “Please John, I would never waste my time on anything that’s such a boring affair.”

“Oh bugger off Sherlock. Well Greg, are you at least going to rest?” The good doctor says, now turning back to Greg. John knows that he’s really quite in pain, and shouldn’t be talking just as Sherlock says.

“Yes. Probably on those hay stacks or something.” He says, motioning to the hay stacks in about 12 metres away. For being stuck in a barn, sleeping on hay stacks sounded pretty good.

“Ah. Sounds nice” John said, his bum already sore from staying on the half grass half dirt floor.

Greg gives him a pitying look and says, “Do you want me to drag some over maybe?”

“Oh no, that’s not necessary. It’ll be a pain to get on them too. The floor will be nicer for at least the first night.” John says, knowing that this is unfortunately true.

“Alright then. Do you need some help…” Greg motions to John’s pained form attempting to lay back down.

“Actually yes, that’d be lovely.” John says, actually accepting help from a friend. Greg nods, knowing that John must be in serious pain to accept help.

“Want to use Sherlock’s coat as a pillow?” 

“Uh, yeah sure. Be nicer than resting my head on this shite.” He says with a smile.

Greg also smiles, then turns to Sherlock, who is staring off into the walls of the barn. “Want to assist me? Or is your massive intellect above all of this?”  

“No no, I will help. I’ll move the coat from behind his back, and then you lay him down, but keep his head up until I reposition my coat to be under his head.”

“Ready, John?” Greg asks, for the third time, agreeing with Sherlock’s plan.

“As I’ll ever be.” The doctor replies with a groan. This is going to be painful.

“One, two, three.” With less pain than the sitting up, John is soon positioned under Sherlock’s beloved belstaff coat.

“Bloody useless like this” John mutters, more to himself than to anyone else.

“You alright now, mate?” Greg asks.

“Mmmhm. Just great.” He replies, pretending that what he just said was really true.

“You really should sleep now, John.” Sherlock says, sitting down next to his blogger.

“Yeah, ‘fraid that’s the best idea right now. But first, I need to keep my knee elevated. Reduce swelling and all.”

“Want me to get a hay stack?” Greg adds in, doing his best to help the good doctor.

“As long as it’s not too tall, then yeah.” With that Greg walks over the pile of hay, and the looks back at Sherlock.

“Can I help you?” John asks, trying to lighten the mood.

“Cough.” 

“What? No! I have broken ribs, remember?” How could Sherlock already forget?!

“You have sever bruising that could be from internal bleeding. If you cough and no blood comes out, then you’ll be fine.”

“First of all Sherlock, that’s not how it works. And secondly, I don’t have internal bleeding. Yeah they kicked me, but I’ll be fine.”

Greg comes back over, lugging a small hay stack with him. “What’s this on internal bleeding?”

“That I’m not.” John says, before Sherlock can even open his mouth. “And if you ask that again I’ll somehow stand up and punch you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Here’s a haystack. Under your leg I assume?”

“Yeah. Thanks Greg.”

“Least I can do.” Greg says, feeling as useless as John.

After John gets settled, Sherlock and Greg go feel around the walls of the barn, because sight is quite limited. Trying to get into a more comfortable position, John turns to his side. Well, tries. In reality, he barely turns and yells out in pain. 

In an instant Sherlock is by his side. “I believed I mentioned it earlier that you should stop moving.”

“Oh shut it, Sherlock.”

“Do sleep, John.”

“Trying to, Sherlock.” John counters, still retaining his sass even when in pain.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.”

John tries to even out his breaths in an effort to sleep, but he can barely breathe, so it’s awfully difficult. Eventually he finds a pattern that causes him minimal pain. After a couple more minutes, he doses off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, dedicated to my lovely girlfriend who is lovely and amazing and much more <3


	3. So Poetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock makes yet another Anderson joke

~John~

 

When John awoke, it was to Sherlock and Greg bickering to each other. It was also considerably brighter, so he figured it was at least past the night of the kidnapping. “Will you gits shut it!” John says, though it comes out as a hoarse whisper. Both of the detectives still hear it though, and they look up to see John laying on the floor, too afraid to sit up.

“John!” Sherlock exclaims happily. Strolling over from across the barn holding something. As he got closer John could tell that it was a water bottle in his grasp.

“Water? Where did-”

“Do refrain from talking, John.” Sherlock interrupts him. “If you will remember, you are still hurt.”

John just sighs (then regrets it) “I’m well aware, Sherlock”. As Greg comes over the doctor talks to him, already tired of Sherlock’s know-it-all attitude. “Where did the water come from?”

“Over in the far corner” Greg replies, pointing to the other side of the barn. “Once the light came through this morning Sherlock and I looked around.”

“Please tell me that you’ve gotten at least a tiny bit of sleep?”

“Yeah. Well, I’m not sure about Sherlock, with his crazy sleep schedule, but I definitely did.” Greg pauses to give Sherlock a look, then continues, “In the corner there were a couple water bottles, a couple of granola bars, and a match box.”

“Wait, a match box?” John asks, knowing that a match box couldn’t be purely coincidental.

“Yes, a matchbox” Says Sherlock, speaking up. “With a note from Moriarty.”

“Moriarty?”

“Do keep up, John. Repeating myself is so pointless and a waste of precious time.” John takes a big sigh, and then really regrets is this time. It feels as if all twelve of his ribs were screaming at him, not just the five. The doctor tries to hide his pain, but to no avail.

“I suppose this is all still quite painful, John?” Greg asks, feeling bad for the doctor.

Grimacing, John says “Mmm, yes.” He brings up a hand to his chest, in an attempt to ease the pain.

“That’s probably not the brightest idea, John” Sherlock says, bringing his flatmate's arm down back to his side.

“That’s probably true. Do one of you mind helping me sit up? I feel bloody useless laying down here.” As much as John hates asking for help, he knows that he needs it. Hopefully his ribs heal quickly; he hates feeling like this. 

“Are you sure tha-” Greg starts.

“Yes I’m sure. Doctor, remember.”

“No need to boast your credentials, Lestrade and I both know. But seeing as how you can barely talk without wincing, I do believe that Lestrade is right in this situation.” Sherlock says.

“What?!” Greg says, with a face of mock surprise. “Did you just say that I was right about something?”

“You obviously heard correctly, no need to ask again.” Greg just rolls his eyes and Sherlock continues. “I don’t think that you should be moving-”

“You two are just the same. I know what I’m doing, I’m a doctor.”

“Right,” Greg starts, not giving up this battle, “but if Sherlock or I was in the same quarry as you are right now, would you agree that it is okay to sit up?” He asks, eyebrows raised, hoping to put some sense into the good doctor.

“Listen mate, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not going to lay here all day while you two continue to fight about whatever you were fighting on.” John only winces once in his statement, making it all the stronger.

“Fine. But if it starts to hurt too much, you better lay right back down. Yeah?” Greg wasn’t in the mood to fight with Sherlock  _ and  _ John.

Saluting him, John says, “Yes sir.” Greg just rolls his eyes.

“Sherlock” Greg asks, taking the Consulting Detective out of his mind palace. “Care to help?”

“Hm? Oh yes. I will help. Though I will advise you John, you’re being an idiot.”

“Thanks for sugar coating it, Sherlock.” John replies sarcastically.

“Ready, mate?” Greg asks. Instead of replying, John just nods.

Then, with a group effort and a few grimaces, John is sitting up. He tucks his right leg under him, but leaves his injured leg out in front of him, useless and still messily wrapped up.

“Right” John says, clearing his throat, then wincing. “So what about this note that’s apparently from Moriarty?”

“The matchbox itself only had one match in it, and a folded up piece of paper. The paper read, ‘I will burn you’ with Moriarty’s initials at the end as a signature.”

“Shite.” John replies, rubbing his eyes with one hand, while keeping the other one stabilizing himself, since there was no way that he could sit up just using the muscles in his midsection.

“To sum it up.” Sherlock says, nodding.

“So has your  _ genius _ mind brain figured out a way to get out of here?” John asks, blaming his attitude on the pain.

“Yes.” Sherlock says, not elaborating one bit.

“Sherlock…” Greg warns, wearing a face of defeat.

“Oh bloody hell Sherlock what’s your idea?” Asks John, recognizing Greg’s face, knowing that his idea can’t be too good.

“I believe that we should use the single match to burn the barn-”

John immediately cuts him off “Sherlock!” He says loudly, and then regrets it, wrapping a protective arm around his chest. “Why-” He takes a breath and continues considerably quieter “how would we get out without getting burnt? Or killed? Maybe you and Greg, but I’m useless with this leg.” He finishes, taking the hand off his chest to motion toward his knee.

“Aha John!” Sherlock says excitedly. “But you see, I prepared for your stubbornness to get up, so I found this!” Sherlock picks a wooden plank off of the floor and shows it to John.

“And how exactly is this supposed to help me?”

“As a makeshift crutch obviously” Greg and John both roll their eyes at the ‘obvious’ “It’s a great size for your height.”

“Okay. That might actually help me. Granted, probably not too much if I was running away from a burning building. But, definitely for getting around.” He pauses before asking, “Help me up?”

Both Sherlock and Greg were not too happy about the idea of John standing and attempting to walk, but both of them also knew that John had to do something soon. The army medic couldn’t just sit and watch. After much debate, the trio figured that the best was to about this was for Sherlock to help John up, while Greg handed him his ‘crutch’.

John mentally prepared himself for this, not planning on declining to this opportunity, even though his chest hurt just simply sitting. Not to mention the possible pain in his knee if anything went wrong. Or just his throbbing knee in general.

“Alright.” John says. “I’m ready. You?” Both Sherlock nods and Greg says ‘yes’, so John begins to stand up, grasping onto Sherlock’s arms.

He closes his eyes in an attempt to lessen the pain. It doesn’t work much. But then John is standing on his right leg, with a ‘crutch’ under his left shoulder. It works better than he anticipated. 

John is still holding onto Sherlock’s arm with his own right arm, until he finally decides that he can stand on his own. Sherlock steps away, by mere centimetres, just incase John collapses.

Lucky for them, John is able to stand on his own, even though he is in obvious pain.

Motioning toward the small pile of hay stacks he slept on, Greg says, “Why don’t you sit down over there. Give a break to your body, and you test out walking.” Both John and Sherlock agree, and John takes a tentative step with his right leg.

“Now for the hard part” John says with a humourless chuckle, trying to take his mind off of his leg.

“It’s fine. Just go slow.” Sherlock says, making sure not to go over a metre away from his blogger.

John tried to take a step with his left, by putting the weight on the crutch, but that was easier said than done. A pained cry broke the silence, and he started to list sideways. Blessed to them, Sherlock was right there and grabbed on to John, making sure that he didn’t fall. 

“Maybe walk with me to the hay?” Sherlock asks, hoping to any figure up above (though logically he knew that there was no God, that just didn’t make sense) that John would agree to this.

“Yes.” John chokes out, and then adds, “Please.” The two friends make their way over to the hay, careful not to jostle John and his body anymore.

Greg hovers on the side, not exactly sure what he should be doing right now. Through each step he could tell that John was experiencing more and more pain. By the time the duo got to the hay stack, John was panting, and gasping every other breath.

“I knew this was not a good idea, John... You really should listen to me more” John knew that Sherlock was just trying to hide his concern with a snide comment, and appreciated it.

“Bug-bugger off” He gets out, before closing his eyes.

“You should probably rest, John.” Greg says.

“I hate to agree with…” John gives up on talking, and wrapps both his arms around his stomach and chest. “Shite”

“Sleep, John. I will get my coat for you to lie on.” Sherlock was true to his word, because in an instant Sherlock was back with his coat, and putting it behind him. “Lay down. Do you need help?”

“Yes.” Both of the detectives were extraordinarily surprised, seeing John willingly asking for help.

When Sherlock helps his friend down, John can see his pitying smile. 

“I’m going to examine your knee.” He suddenly announces, after John has already laid down.

“What do  _ you  _ know about bone injuries?” John asks, before Greg could do so yourself.

“John, stop talking. Please. It will ease some of your pain.” Knowing Sherlock is right, he shuts up, and lets Sherlock examine his limb.

He feels the scarf and wooden boards being removed, and he can’t help but feel relieved, because the wooden boards were most definitely not comfortable. 

“What does-”

He is immediately silenced by Sherlock, “John! Stop, talking! And because you are wondering what it looks like, the answer is blue, purple and still swollen. Not looking good.” 

John knew that neither Greg nor Sherlock needed to be a doctor to know that his knee was going to have serious damage, unless they somehow got out of here.

“What else can we do?” Greg asks, really wishing that he could help more.

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing else we really can do, unless you found some ice or plaster along with the water.” John says, wishing it wasn’t true. His knee, already messed up up, is probably going to get a ton worse if not helped soon.

Saying that much has caused john too much pain, but at this point he’s actually pretty good at masking it. Sherlock, of course, sees right through it. He doesn’t comment on it though, to John’s surprise.

“Do you want to use my scarf for wrapping your knee or ankle?” Sherlock asks, although he already knows the answer.

“Ribs” John says in between breaths.

“You may have to sit up a small bit for that,” Sherlock says, apologetically. “Lestrade can help though.” He adds.

At that Greg comes up, closing the gap in between them. “Yeah. Just let me do all the work, alright?”

“Okay.” Both Sherlock and Greg worry about the fact that their friend is only answering in monosyllabic words.

“Barely lift up his upper body -using his shoulders- and then after I will slide the scarf under. Then let him down. Gently” Sherlock adds.

“Got it.” Greg nods to both of the flatmates. Sherlock mumbles something while John just nods as well. They get to work.

It happens quickly, which may just be John’s body blocking out the pain, but it seems that he is already lying back down. The only difference is that now there is a light force over his chest.

“Need anything else, John?” Sherlock asks, desperately needing to see his friend,  _ best friend, _ back healthy again.

“Water?” John replies, eyes closed.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Sherlock jogs the short distance, grabs a bottle then goes back. “I’m really sorry John, but you’re going to need to sit up again. Can’t risk you choking.”

John curses, then looks up at Greg. Understanding what he needs, the DI puts his hands and John’s shoulders, getting ready to lift him. “One, two, three” John groans as Greg pulls him up, not letting John do any of the work.

Sherlock then gives John the uncapped bottle, and lets him drink from it. He holds it back to Sherlock, and Greg lowers him back onto the infamous belstaff coat.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Sherlock asks, not knowing where all of this  _ sentiment _ came from. 

“Unless you have a couple kilos of paracetamol, no.” John replies with a smile.

“Then please do all of us a favor and sleep, John.” 

John actually agrees to this. And even though it’s not even noon, and he’s only been awake for a few minutes, the good doctor falls asleep. Though to him it feels more like passing out.

 

**~Sherlock~**

As soon as John succumbs to unconsciousness, the collective side of Sherlock crumbles down. 

“We  _ need _ to find a way out, Lestrade!” Sherlock says, running a hand through the back of his hair. He goes to the other side of the barn and begins to pace. “So if we don’t burn this place, down, we should break it! It’s an old enough building. There’s some more wooden planks, it can’t be that difficult.”

“Sherl-” Lestrade starts.

“Or perhaps we can dig our way out! Yes, that could work, but we have no spade or any other digging utensils.”

“Sherlock shut up.” Greg says firmly, causing the Consulting Detective to stop pacing and turn toward him.

“What can be so important, Lestrade? It is imperative that we find a way out.” Sherlock says, giving the DI an impatient glare.

“Just slow down. I understand that you’re worried about John. But you need to think more clearly. We still have a few days before we run out of water. Until then, think of a sensible plan that  _ doesn’t  _ put us in danger of bodily harm.” Sherlock knows that Lestrade is just trying to help him, but he can’t help but feel annoyed.

“Be quiet Lestrade. I need to go to my mind palace. Go turn around.” A pause sustains until Sherlock adds, “And make sure that John’s breathing pattern does not turn irregular!”

“Sherlock stop shouting.” Lestrade whispers angrily. “I know that you can’t ever think when you’re distressed, or have an emotional connection, or something like that… But you need to calm down. So slow your breathing, and more importantly, you’ll wake John. So stop shouting.” After Lestrade finishes, he looks over to Sherlock, finding him listening to him.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock says, his voice now at a lower volume. “We have enough food and water to last us a maximum of 3.4 days. We need to find a way out of here. And with John injured, we need to formulate a plan that can be perfectly executed, as well as safe and efficient.” Sherlock stares right at Lestrade. “Now for the last time,” he says, his voice raising, “I need to go to my mind palace!”

Sherlock then walks off, much like a child after throwing a tantrum, and faces the back wall.

_ I need to go to my mind palace! But John. John! He can barely breathe, how is he supposed to get out and walk over 100 metres!  _ Sherlock growls, his fists tightening.  _ Mycroft told me that sentiment is bad! _

Sherlock makes another frustrated sound, then walks over to the hay stacks and sits down. _ Stop thinking of John and start thinking! This is an elementary problem, you could’ve solved it at the age that you solved Mummy’s missing purse! Think! _

_ Windows… There are two, one of them is low enough to reach if I were to stack the hay up… But then how would John get out? Bad idea. Deleted. _

_ The door… To obvious. Try anyway. -Locked- Locked on outside. To difficult. Deleted. _

_ Digging. No spades. Deleted. _

_ Burning. Lestrade said no. Too dangerous for John. Smoke inhalation also a problem. And then how would get back to London? Deleted. _

_ There are a few weak sides of the barn, almost moulded wood, it wouldn’t be too difficult to kick it down, or use other stray pieces of wood to break it. Make a big enough hole for John to fit through comfortably, even with the crutch. But then how would we get out past there? To London? Deleted. _

_ Explosives? No. Deleted. _

_ Wait no. None of these would get us back to London. But Moriarty doesn’t want us dead… Wouldn’t be enough fun. He made sure that there were purposely no ways to get back to London. But he wants us alive. Of course! _

_ Obvious! _

_ Obvious! _

_ He wants a puzzle to be solved. But the only things here were water and matches… Burn the heart out of me… Nothing else is here to burn! Wait. Stupid! _

_ The hay! Of course. Needle in a haystack. How poetic! Obvious! Burn the haystacks and there will be the needle. Hard to find but obvious!  _

Sherlock quickly turns to look at the other side of the barn, which has Lestrade (who’s now sitting) watching John while he sleeps. While he sleeps on the hay stacks.  _ Hay stacks!  _ Need to get him off. 

“Well, what’s the verdict? Found a way out of here?” Lestrade asks, seeing Sherlock looking at him.

“No. There is not a way out of her. Which is exactly what Moriarty wants.” A smile grows on Sherlock’s face, slightly scaring Lestrade. “It’s all just a game, with clever,  _ clever _ tactics!” 

“Forgive me for asking, but,  _ what? _ ” Lestrade says, not knowing where this is going.

“It’s so obvious! A needle in a haystack! There are haystacks! But we’re not going to look through all of them, no no! That’d be much too obvious! Instead he gave us a single match! To test us! This is so easy! Anderson could’ve figured it out!”

“Yeah, listen Sherlock, that’s great, but you woke up John up.” Lestrade says, sighing. 

Sure enough, when Sherlock looks over at John, he sees him with a half smile. “Look’s like we’ve found our way home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to two people this time (even though one won't ever see this lol), my beautiful, lovely, incredible, girlfriend, Amber <3, and my favorite bass player for taking care of me while I was sick


	4. Getting Hot in Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys aren't you all glad that this is pre written? I know I am, because your not favorite author has walking pneumonia. Hah. Hah. Hah. So much fun omfg my chest hurtss

"Even though I only heard about half of that, I take it that you've found our way out?" John asks, pausing to catch his breath halfway through.

"Indeed!" Sherlock says, face lighting up. "Moriarty just had to  _so_ poetic. Everything he does is for a reason, and everything can be figured out if people would just make connections! Surely everyone has heard of the 'finding a needle in a haystack' thing! But it must have a deeper meaning…" Sherlock trails off for a second, only to continue again.

"Of course he wants people to see that -well, not people, just me- to see that the needle could easily be found, as long as the hay is burned. But oh! It must have a different significance to me, otherwise Moriarty wouldn't put this.

"And then why  _why_  would he give us food and water. Surely he'd want us to be time constrained… It's almost as if he wanted us to feel safe," John scoffs at that "But no, that doesn't make sense."

WIth another breath Sherlock continues, "Back to the needle, or rather the haystacks, perhaps Moriarty is trying to tell me that I will somehow burn myself or-"

"Sherlock," Greg interrupts (which John is quite grateful for, since it hurts too much for him to do it himself) "Shut up. Enough of your deducing, we need to get out of here. John in particular."

"Yes yes, of course." Then Sherlock looks sympathetically at John, who just groans.

"Oh bloody hell. Damn haystacks." He mumbles, cursing at his luck. Not that he was kidnapped and beaten, but the fact that he's had to move a ridiculous amount of times from the floor to haystack. Almost all of his conscious minutes, actually.

As if reading his mind, Greg says, "On the plus side, this will probably be the last time you're going to have to move. And definitely the last time regarding hay stacks." He adds, trying to lighten the mood.

"Just move me already." With a softer voice John continues, "Bloody luck"

"How do you want to go about it this time?" Greg asks, slightly wondering to himself how they don't have a system already.

"I'll just pass out, then you can decide, yeah?" John says, wanting to pass out at this point. Even his few minutes of consciousness have caused him more pain than he'd like to admit. His chest is protesting every breath, making him want to stop breathing (however illogical that is), and his jacked up knee isn't doing him any favours either.

Greg snorts to John's plan and says, "As you wish. Just lay back and we'll do all the work." John moans in reply, his ribs hurting even more than they were a minute ago. "We'll pick him up and then lay him back down, this time on the floor. Sound good?" Greg asks Sherlock, who is currently staring at the larger stack of hay. "Sherlock!" Greg snaps, bringing the Consulting Detective back to their situation.

"Oh yes, that will do. Ready John?"

"Just get on with it" John replies, too much in pain to care about his response, which both of the other men understood.

"One, two, three."

As if John's luck wasn't rotten enough, his left knee got jostled in the lift. He cries out in pain, which in turn also makes his ribs hurt more.

"John? John?" Sherlock calls out to him after laying the doctor down. "What happened?" Sherlock asks, not bothering to mask his concern.

"D-don't be alarmed," John says, eyes closed and wheezing.

"What?"

"But I'm about to pass out now." He takes a shuddering breath. "Don't burn down the place, Sh-Sherlock." With one last smile, John does in fact pass out. But this time, he dreams.

…...

One of John's earliest memories is when he was still little, without a care in the world, and he had just learned that being a 'doctor' was so much fun!

"Harry come play doctor with me!" A young John says, running into the sitting room. With a towel, planning on using it as a bandage.

"I already said no, John" An annoyed Harry replies.

"But you said if I didn't bother you yesterday you'd play with me!" Pouts John, now pulling on his sister's sleeve.

"Johhhnnn" Harry whines, "I already said no. I'm a big girl now." She adds, even though she was only ten.

"Please! Please! Pleaseeee!"

"Fine" Harry agrees in defeat, "But no wrapping my arm in a towel like last time." but not without conditions that is.

"It wasn't a towel, it was a cast. For you broken arm, remember?" John says, happy at the fact that his big sister agreed to play with him.

"My arm wasn't broken"

"It was in pretend! Now c'mon!" John says, urging his sister to the edge of the couch.

He ended up putting about a hundred band-aids on her knee.

Then in a blink of an eye, John is back in Afghanistan, getting waterboarded.

…

**~Sherlock~**

"John? John!" Sherlock shouts, in hopes to rouse the doctor, but to no avail.

"Don't worry Sherlock, he'll be fine." Lestrade says, partly for himself, and gives Sherlock a supportive shoulder.

Glaring at Lestrade's hand, Sherlock says, "We need to somehow get all of the hay in one place, and then burn it. But in a controlled manner, for John's sake."

"How should-"

"Obvious," Sherlock interrupts, "Just put all the hay on the side of the barn with the taller part of the roof -yes, the roof is lopsided, don't give me that look-, light the match, then throw it in." Sherlock keeps switching from looking at the ceiling and the hay. "Lucky for us, the majority of the hay is already there."

At that, Sherlock and Lestrade begin to move the remaining pieces of hay onto the pile, while Sherlock often steals glances toward the good doctor. These glances  _not_ going unnoticed by Lestrade. The DI just smiles to himself, wondering the last time that Sherlock cared so much. Or simply cared in general.

After the Consulting Detective finishes stacking hay Lestrade says, "Are we ready now? To burn it, that is."

"Not quite. We need to move John farther away. It will get considerably hot from the flames, and I certainly don't want John this close." Sherlock gives up on trying to hide these dreaded  _emotions_  he feels. He just needs to get John medical help.

"Alright," says Lestrade, understanding the worry "I'll get his legs, you get his arms and we'll move him?"

"No. I will carry his legs. Because of the injury, John is extraordinarily fragile. Or at least his legs."

Lestrade nods, holding his tongue to not make a comment on how much the detective cares about his blogger.

"And be careful with his ribs. It's an absolute wonder his ribs haven't punctured anything. Let's keep it that way."

"Sounds like a plan" Lestrade says, ready to move the doctor.

With a not-so-swift motion, the two detectives carefully pick John up, and carry him to the farthest place away from the hay. Besides a few unconscious grunts, the short journey is smooth. And right before they are about to put John back down, Sherlock barks out a "Careful!"

As the two men stand up, Lestrade can't help but see a smile on Sherlock's face. And he recognizes  _that_ smile.

Sherlock's grin grows as he looks at the pile of hay. "Now for the fun part!" He practically skips to the match box and takes out the single match. "I am just as clever as you, Moriarty" Sherlock says, to no one in particular while striking the match. Then with one more glance to John and Lestrade, he throws the match onto the pile and runs back to the two.

A fiery inferno engulfs the hay, and Sherlock is worried for a split second that the barn was going to catch on fire.

Wait a minute. No!  _No!_ One of the reasons why that idea couldn't work! Smoke inhalation!

_Stupid sentiment clouding my judgement!_

In an instant Sherlock is off near the flames, trying to reach the abandoned water bottles without getting severely burned. His long legs let him maneuver quickly, which the Consulting Detective is extremely grateful for. He hears a shout from Lestrade, and he realizes that he should get to to safe side of the barn sooner than later. While he runs back, thoughts, observations, and deductions run through his mind.

_Moriarty planned ahead. He knew exactly what I was going to do. That's why he gave us water! He doesn't want me dead, so he gave us that to protect ourselves from smoke._

_He didn't think it would take me that long to figure out his little poetic plan. He didn't give us water so that we could survive for days. He gave us water so smoke wouldn't kill us._

_But then why give us granola…? Of course! Obvious! To disguise the water as a means to survive. So clever! How could he have thought that all of the way through?_

_And how could I have not foreseen this! Now Lestrade and John will have to pay the price!_

_John. John! He's still unconscious, unknowingly breathing all of the smoke into his lungs. Into his lungs that makes his chest hurt when he breathes. Not good, definitely not good._

_How could I have no seen this? Stupid!_

Then in less than three seconds while all of those thoughts were going through the detective's mind, he reached John and Lestrade, thoroughly drenched in sweat.

"What the bloody hell was that for?" Lestrade cries out, arms raised in confusion.

"Smoke! Smoke Lestrade! It will kill us if we're not careful. Hurry now. Rip your clothing and soak it in water. Put it over your nose and mouth. Yes- no, don't give me that look!- just do it!" That thought hit Lestrade like a bus.

Quickly, he rips off the corner of his shirt (his nice dress shirt is the least of his concern right now), and grabs one of the water bottles from Sherlock.

Sherlock rips his own shirt twice, one for him and one for John. But one look at John, unconsciously wheezing and in obvious pain, Sherlock knows that it's John who needs this more.

Hastily soaking the piece of shirt, he wrings it out, then carefully places it over John's face, making sure that he can still breathe. Lestrade comes over, and switches places with Sherlock's hand, keeping the cloth over the doctor's face. Unknowingly, John writhes in place and tries to move his head away. But Sherlock, who is currently dousing his own piece of shirt, is oblivious to this fact.

After completely covering his face, Sherlock turns back to John to see him almost thrashing at this point.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yells at him, "What's going on?"

_No! John is going to hurt himself! This absolutely can not be happening! Reasons why he is in distress:_

_1\. Having a bad dream_

_2\. Memory_

_3\. Cloth triggered a bad memory_

_4\. He's more hurt than originally planned_

_5\. Joh-_

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouts at him again. "He's going to get hurt even more"

"I know!" Sherlock shouts back at Lestrade, annoyed at him for stating the obvious. "It's a bad memory brought on by the cloth. Probably from-"  _Oh God._

"What's it from?"

"Waterboarding." Sherlock says quietly.

**~Greg~**

"Oh God" Greg agrees.

"Take the cloth off. Hurry!" The smoke will dissipate soon enough, right now all that matters is that John is okay. He has to be okay.

After Greg takes the cloth off, Sherlock tries to rouse his beloved flatmate from his slumber by shaking his shoulder, weary of any injuries. "John. Please John, wake up. You're not in Afghanistan anymore. John!" With one more shout of "John!" he wakes up, on the very wrong side of the bed.

"No. No! Get away!" As if injuries forgotten, John is sitting up and trying to bat away Sherlock's and Greg's hands.

"John stop. It's just us." The Consulting Detective tries to sooth, but it's not working.

"Please! Just stop! I don't-" A sob stops John from continuing, and he wraps his arm around his midsection. To find a scarf. A scarf was most definitely not wrapped around him in Afghanistan.

Sherlock, the all knowing deduction genius notices this, and uses it to his advantage. "See John? It's just my scarf. Your silly little flatmate's scarf. It's okay. You're not back there. Yes. See, look up at me?" Even though his words are muffled by the cloth, John still makes out what words he is saying.

Sherlock could pinpoint the millisecond that John recognized him. "Sher-. Oh Christ." He lays back down, grabbing onto the hem of Sherlock's ripped up shirt. "I see that you're currently burning the hay?" He says with an attempted chuckle (cut short by pain) in an effort to lighten the mood.

"John, can I put the cloth back on? I promise I'll stay right here. Look, it's not soaked or anything, just kind of damp?" It's a stretch, Sherlock knows, but he really needs John to not hurt his lungs right now.

"I don- I don't know if I can." The good doctor says, closing his eyes.

"Please John, for me?" In any other situation, Greg would make a snide comment on it, and maybe even tell the rest of Scotland Yard, about this, but right now all he can see is pure worry.

"How long?"

"Not- not for long, John." Sherlock knows that it's a blatant lie, but he doesn't care at this point.

"Um. O-Okay." Both of the detectives can see the fear in the man's eyes, but only one of them feels pity.

"Thank you!" Sherlock says, very clearly despite it being behind a cloth. Then very carefully, Sherlock puts the cloth back on the lower half of his friend's face, making sure to keep eye contact with him the entire time.

Even though Greg certainly is not the deduction genius, he can tell that John is far from comfortable, and his eyes keep darting around.

After about a minute of flames dying down and worried flatmates, John starts to hyperventilate.

"No, no, it's okay John. You're here. With me. The cloth is protecting you, not hurting you. You know that it's imperative that you don't get excessive amounts smoke in your lungs. Yes, that's right, just breathe. No- don't try to talk. Breathe with me. In, out. Innnnn, ooouuuuutt."

Greg could've laughed, he's never seen Sherlock be this kind to  _any_ victim, let alone kind to anyone at any time. Perhaps John has peeled back some of the Consulting Detective's sociopathic tendencies.

The flames finally die down, and a small black box is left in the ask and debris.

Greg turns to look at Sherlock again, who is staring intently into John's eyes, and not looking at the box. "Sherlock?" the DI asks, attempting to get the detective's attention.

"What?" Sherlock replies, obviously not happy to be interrupted.

"There's a box in the middle of the ground."

Sherlock looks over, and then right back at John. "It is a fireproof box, Moriarty thought ahead, and in there is probably -no, definitely- a mobile phone, to call for help. Because all this is, is just a game. A silly little game for Moriarty to watch us." Sherlock practically growls at the end, causing Greg question the detective's sanity. Again.

"Okay then. I'm going to get the box. You just…" He makes a motion with his hand toward the duo, knowing that it's useless because Sherlock is only paying attention to John and hasn't look up. He sighs and walks over the ash to get to the box.

As Sherlock predicted, inside the box was a mint condition mobile, with an engraving on the back that said:

**To Sherly, so you can keep me in mind before our next meet <3**

"Sherlock! You wer-"

"Don't be dull, Greg," Sherlock says, cutting the DI off. "Of course I was right. Now, call for help, and keep the cloth on, there's still a considerable amount of smoke, seeing as how barns to do not have good ventilation. Especially not one this old." Still keeping his eyes on John's, he continues, "You should call someone, instead of standing there like an idiot, Greg."

There's the Sherlock he knows. With a smile he says, "Of course" and then punches in Donovan's number. After two rings she answers.

"Sally?"

" _Oh Go- Greg?"_

"Yeah."

" _Where are you? Are you with John and the Freak?"_

"I'm not exactly sure, yes, and his name is Sherlock."

" _Okay well, we'll track the phone. Is anyone hurt?"_

"John is, and we've all breathed a ton of smoke."

" _So that's why your voice sounds like that."_

"What?"

" _Nothing. How bad is John hurt?"_

"He's not too good. He has some broken ribs and a broken knee."

Greg hears Donavan's audible wince and then " _I'll send a couple of ambulances. Stay on the phone, we're tracking it. Where'd you get the phone anyway?"_

"Moriarty" was the curt response.

" _What?! The same one from the pool?"_

"Yeah."

" _How?"_

"It's a long story. I don't really understand it. Sherlock knows though."

A scoff. " _Of course he does. We've got the coordinates. Pretty far away. How'd you get there?"_

"Sherlock said that the kidnappers drove us."

" _Right. They're asking me how much smoke is in the building."_

"Oh um. Let's see. We're in a barn, and we had to burn a ton of hay in here, and there's no ventilation, so I'd say a lot."

There was a muffled conversation on the other side of the phone before Sally said, " _Why on Earth would you need to burn hay?!"_

"It's another really long story. Sherlock knew that we had to. By some miracle he was right."

" _Okay well, get ready to tell this long story since there will be lots of statements when we come."_

"As always."

" _You mentioned that John's ribs were hurt. How bad?"_

"Well let's see. He can't really sit up or anything. Well I mean, he can, but not comfortably at all. Sherlock used his scarf to wrap it up."

" _Okay. So a stretcher is definitely needed?"_

"Yeah. Not to mention his knee."

" _Oh right."_

"I'm going to go make sure that Sherlock and John are alright."

" _Keep the phone on!"_

"I know."

Greg walks over to where Sherlock and John are sitting and laying respectively, and Sherlock is still trying to calm John down. The DI is impressed that Sherlock was able to keep the cloth over John's mouth for that long. He knows what waterboarding is, and he also knows that it is not fun. Without looking up, Sherlock asks "Who did you call?"

"Sally."

"Who?"

"Sally Donovan? Remember?"

"Oh Donovan. Good. She's the least idiotic of Scotland Yard. Well, after you."

Greg smilies, knowing that's the closest thing to a compliment he's going to get from Sherlock. "Doing okay John?"

After another deep breath, John replies sarcastically with, "Dandy" and then goes back to staring at Sherlock. If he had his mobile, Greg would definitely take a photo. Add it to his video of a drugged Sherlock *****.

"Just a tiny bit longer John. Greg called for help. It will be soon." Greg knows that Sherlock's so called 'sociopath' emotions have broken down since John came into his life. And he can't help but smile at that thought.

Having 'bad' ventilation would be an overstatement. There was absolutely no ventilation. It started to worry Greg after about 15 minutes. He could tell that his lungs were not happy with the air supply, and that it was going to get much worse.

Five minutes after that John was the first one to cough. He cried out when doing so, his ribs probably hating him. Sherlock was there the entire time, making sure that John didn't get too hurt doing so.

"Oh Christ" He mutters, grimacing in pain. After he coughs Sherlock carefully places the cloth (though it is barely damp anymore) back over John's nose and mouth. Greg watches as the doctor goes through the same fear.

"No, no John. No closing your eyes. Look at me, yeah? Good. Keep your eyes on me. See? You're still here. In a barn. Not for much longer though. The imbeciles of Scotland Yard are coming. Then it'll be fine."

For the next ten minutes Greg spent his time watching and listening Sherlock comfort John, who in turn, started becoming more and more white faced. Greg scooted over closer to Sherlock and John, making sure that everything was alright when he heard the doctor beginning to wheeze.

"John. Match my breathing." Sherlock says, strangely calm in this situation. "No, calm down. In and then out. And then in…"

"Sherl-"

"Don't talk. Just breathe."

"Sh-"

"No, stop."

"Can't…"

"Yes, you can. Don't make me show all of these… emotions for nothing." Greg stupidly grins at that, very surprised to see the detective admitting that he actually has emotions.

As John's eyelids begin to close, ("No! John!") sirens start to be heard. Then not a minute later, Greg hears the voices of his team.

"In Here!" He shouts out, even though it was probably not necessary. The building that is billowing in smoke is the most obvious thing for miles. And then the door (which was apparently locked on the outside, according to Sherlock) bursts open, and all of the medics and officers are there to greet him.

On the other hand, the smoke in his lungs has caught up, and unconsciousness greets him as well.

***A Scandal In Belgravia**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Amber, who warned me about taking care of my cold or this would happen (looks like I really should've taken some time off). Love you <3


	5. Finale?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your least favorite author got antibiotics; things are looking up

~Sherlock (I think)~

Sherlock, being the only one conscious at this points, directs the medical staff to John, who is still wheezing. He let's go of John, but keeps the cloth over his mouth, just in case. He mutters one last "John" and then the doctors lift his flatmate onto a stretcher shouting commands.

A few other doctors see Lestrade's passed out form, and takes him out. Then one quickly leads Sherlock out of the barn and onto a stretcher.

A small amount of the people around the building are part of the fire department, which isn't completely necessary, because there are no flames, just smoke.

The detective immediately tries to get off of the stretcher, until he realizes how weak the smoke has made him. Feeling triumphant, the doctor straps on an oxygen mask, and lightly pushes him down until Sherlock is completely lying down.

Needing something to deduce (not because he wanted to make sure that John is okay, he's a sociopath. Obviously) he sits up again and looks around him to see a few doctors surrounding John's unconscious form. "John?" Sherlock's muffled voice asks no one in particular.

The doctor who previously helped him turns back around and responds with "He'll be fine. Along with Detective Inspector Lestrade. Now do us all a favour and lay down." She adds, with that concerned look that all doctors seem to have.

Knowing that this is in fact the best plan, Sherlock agrees to lay down. But out of the corner of his eye he sees someone he most definitely was not expecting. Because on the grass, stands Mycroft Holmes, leaning upon his umbrella. The man stands there wearing his nice suit, as if he wasn't in the middle of nowhere on grass and dirt. He has a disgruntled look on his face, along with a look of disappointment that is permanently etched on.

The Consulting Detective opens his mouth to say something, but the doctor's hand on his arm stops him, mostly out of surprise. Sherlock tries to speak again, but his doctor beats him to it.

"I'm going to put an IV in now. It may pinch, but if you relax your muscles it will hurt less."

Sherlock nods, and complies by loosening his brachioradialis. He feels the familiar pinch of a needle breaking the skin, but still knowing that he won't get the high of cocaine with this needle. He tries to move the mask off of his face, needing to do, or at least something so that he isn't just laying there. He only gets out "Myc-" before the doctor pushes his hands away from the mask, securing the flow of oxygen once again.

With a smile the doctor says, "Sorry love. Got to keep that on." And then she adds with a chuckle, "They told me you were stubborn" While the doctor goes out of sight Sherlock can't help but be annoyed at his brother for telling them that, since he knows that no one else would have the audacity to say something like that.

Sherlock takes advantage of the doctor going away to sit up again to find John. Not that he cares or anything. Purely scientific. He only gets half way up, before a hand pushes him down again. He turns his head, expecting it to be the doctor, but instead sees his brother's hand on his shoulder.

"Must you be this difficult, brother dear?" Mycroft says with a sigh.

"John?" Sherlock asks, needing to know that his blogger is okay (again, purely scientific). The elder Holmes understood, even with the mask muting his little brother's voice.

"Dr. Watson is just fine. They have sedated him even in his unconscious state though. He was scaring a few of the doctors and possibly injuring himself further. I assume he was having some sort of nightmare or flashback." Mycroft says with a sigh while looking up at where John's stretcher was presumably located with a pitying look. John would've hated it.

As Sherlock attempts to answer, the British Government hold up a hand to silence him. "As for Lestrade he is unconscious on his own. They are mostly worried about damage regarding the lungs. Which accounts to you too, brother dear." There is a short pause until Mycroft continues, "I have told the staff of your… Recreational drug usage," he stops to give a disgusted look "So they know to not skim on the drugs. You will stay unconscious this time." He adds with a smirk.

At that last remark one of the doctors pushes the stretcher onto the closest ambulance. Before he can look around too much the doctor obscures his peripheral vision.

"Okay Mr Holmes. I'm going to ask you a few questions, but I don't want you to talk, so just nod yes or no. Is that okay?"

Sherlock nods yes, even though he doesn't want to deal with any trivial questions right now. Or ever. They are so pointless.

"Other than your chest, does anything else hurt?"

Sherlock shakes his head no.

"This time hold up fingers using your right hand, so you don't disrupt the IV. About how many hours were you exposed to smoke?"

He hold up one finger.

"And how long did you have the cloth over your nose and mouth?"

Again, he holds up one finger.

"Is this the same for Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

Sherlock nods.

"As well as Dr. Watson?"

He shakes his head no, making it as obvious to the doctor as he can. Just so that the doctors can know, but still, the detective and 'sociopath' doesn't care for those emotions.

"Use fingers again. How many minutes did Dr Watson have the cloth over his nose and mouth?"

Sherlock holds up five fingers then makes an 'o' using his hands.

"50 minutes?"

A nod.

"Thank you Mr Holmes. Unfortunately, there will be more questions-" the detective groans at this "-but that will be later. Right now I need you to try and relax. I'm going to give you a sedative to help you sleep. Your brother has instructed me to give you a larger dose, so the effects may begin quickly."

Sherlock, annoyed at his brother but too tired to protest, nods and closes his eyes with one last look around for his blogger. He doesn't care about him on an emotional level though. Of course not. Emotions are so useless, and are a disadvantage.

Not five minutes later he succumbs to the grasps of unconsciousness and sleeps for the first time since the kidnapping.

~John~

John woke twice before really coming back to the land of the living.

The first time was before he even reached the hospital, while he was still in the ambulance. He's not even sure how he regained consciousness.

But after reliving hell from Afghanistan in the form of nightmares, he suddenly awoke. This surprised the doctors and John alike, who, both thought that the famous blogger was far too injured and weak to wake up.

Despite this, John, with a surge of adrenaline, opened his eyes. He immediately tried to push (or rather pull) the oxygen mask off of his face, thinking that someone was trying to suffocate him. This led to him gasping, a futile attempt to push air into his lungs.

After only three seconds of this, the doctors had already almost executed a plan to keep John Watson calm and breathing. Because he was weak, the doctors had no trouble putting the mask back on and securing it. The big dilemma was his erratic breathing.

With his short gasps of breath, came pained expressions, and physical pain, due to the internal pressure on his ribs, which made things worse. Lucky for him, the paramedics came prepared, and hastily added a sedative into his IV line.

And although Dr. Watson does not remember this event, the EMTs certainly do.

The second time John "woke up" was far less eventful. After having orthopedic surgery on his knee, John awoke very briefly in his hospital room.

Like the last time, he still had an oxygen mask on (smoke inhalation is a bitch), but he didn't make such a big fuss about it in his drugged state. Instead he simply greedily breathed in the oxygen being supplied to him.

In a daze, he looked up to see Sally Donovan, talking with Molly Hooper. Trying to talk to them, he opens his mouth, but only gets out a pained grunt. It catches their attention though, so John counts it as a win.

"Oh! John!" Molly exclaims happily, matching a surprised face with Donovan.

Wanting to reply, the blogger tries to turn to completely face the two women. Big mistake, as it turns out. Because when he turned, he ended up leaning on his ribs.

The pain flaring up from his ribs makes him cry out in pain, which was still extremely audible despite the oxygen mask.

Molly races over the short distance and carefully lays down the good man, before calling out to his actual doctor. Seeing his eyes close, she says, "It's alright John. Let your body rest. There's no rush."

So he does just that. John will certainly remember this better than the ambulance, but it will still be awfully clouded.

The next time John wakes up his head doesn't feel full of cotton, and his vision isn't blurred. Since he knows this is an improvement, he tries to look around at his surroundings. He still feels some pressure on his ribs, and a constant pinch in his knee. But overall he knows that he's on the good drugs.

Looking around (without using the rest of his body, mind you, just his head) he sees Sherlock curled up in a chair, much like how it is back at Baker Street. The only difference is that this time the detective is wearing a hospital gown and a blanket is thrown over most of him.

To the older man's surprise, he hears a voice coming from the opposite side of the room, where to doorway is. "Glad to see you finally conscious, John." He looks over to see Mycroft, sitting in another chair, with his trademark suit and tie.

"My brother and Lestrade were quite worried." He stands up from the hospital grade chair to lean on his umbrella and continues, "Many of us, actually. Your landlady sends her regards." And then with a disgruntled look he says, "I'd like to congratulate you on causing my dear brother to show so many… Emotions." The politician says with a wave toward his brother.

"How long-" A few painful coughs interrupts the doctor's words.

Mycroft politely waits until the fit has subsided and then answers the question, "It has been three days, since the rescue, if that is what you're trying to ask. You've been unconscious for all of it, except for a small segment yesterday, when you gave Miss Hooper quite a scare."

John nods then awkwardly points to the sleeping form on the chair. "How long has Sherlock been in here?"

With yet another sigh Mycroft says, "About 13 hours straight, since yesterday. But, before that he'd sneak around the halls to get here. He'd stay until someone found him and put him back into his room." There's a short pause before he says, "And I believe that he blackmailed a few nurses to help him. After the fifth time I just told the staff to let him say."

John just shakes his head in disbelief. "He blackmailed the nurses so that he could go roam the halls?"

"Mm. Quite."

Getting more confident with his voice John asks, "And Greg, is he alright?"

"Oh yes, he's just fine. Though like my brother he is awfully tired of staying in the hospital room for a few days. To no one's surprise he's also been seen walking down the halls with no destination. He woke up early yesterday. I believe that he's already fought with his wife since then, actually. Poor thing," He says shaking his head. "Doesn't know that his wife is cheating on him."

John let's out a chuckle, before wrapping an arm around his chest "You and your brother are the same. Speaking of, Sherlock is usually a light sleeper. Why has he not woken up from our chat?"

"I've convinced his doctors to give him a sedative in his daily medications. It appears that it has done the trick."

"And by 'convinced' you mean…?" John trails off, not knowing if he actually wants to know the answer to question.

Mycroft responds by giving him a sly smile and John just mutters a "Right".

John reaches over to the medical cart next to him and pushes down the level of pain medicine. He knows that he might regret this later, but the best way that he knows to judge how bad injuries are is by the pain level. He sees Mycroft watching him with a curious look, as well as a displeased look. Or maybe Mycroft always has a displeased look on his face.

Eventually Mycroft looks back at his brother and says, "Hm. It appears that we have woken him up though. I will apologize in advance for his behaviour. It has been… Less than stellar since you three have arrived."

"So he's been an utter pain in the arse?"

"Indeed." Mycroft says with a smile.

"John!" Sherlock says, once he's opened his eyes, completely disregarding his brother's comment with a smile Mycroft hasn't seen since he was still in primary school. "When did you wake up?" And then turning to his brother he says, "And why didn't you wake me sooner?"

With an attempt at a chuckle John says, "Relax, Sherlock. I just woke up. You should really be sleeping in a bed."

"That's not very useful information, John."

"Well as your doctor I do believe it is." The blogger replies with his eyebrows raised, even though he knows that it is nearly impossible to win a fight against any Holmes.

"You should be the one in a bed right now."

"Sherlock, I am in a bed! And besides I've been resting for three days apparently."

With a huff the detective replies with "What ever. Now! We absolutely must do something about Moriarty. I think that this message is just the first of many."

"Brother dear," Mycroft starts with a sigh, "Please give the doctor some time to rest up first. You as well. If you remember correctly you passed out the first time you decided to go… Explore the halls?"

"Boring, Mycroft. I need to figure out this! Moriarty knows that too. A case that can stimulate me for weeks! Oh it's better than a serial killer!" John laughs at the happiness that his flatmate is displaying, as well as feeling bad for the hospital staff these past couple of days.

"Oi! Don't make me laugh. Still quite hurt here." John motions to his chest.

"You should probably get better then."

"Sherlock, I'm not you! I can't just will myself to get better and ignore the pain!"

"No?" Sherlock asks, looking genuinely confused. "Perhaps you should work on that then. It'd be an interesting experiment. To see how weaker minds attempt to block out pain."

Oh God, John thinks. He can't actually be serious. John sighs, knowing that the 'sociopath' still doesn't completely understand other people's emotions.

"Or of course I could try it on Mycroft. If I had a gun-"

The two men in the room immediately cut him off with a "Sherlock!"

"Sherlock I'm not the dumb one." Mycroft says defensively.

"Not when we were younger. But now you seem to busy yourself with meaningless and trivial government matters. If you're trying to ruin your brain you're definitely succeeding" The younger Holmes says with a smirk.

"Need I remind you that the only reason you can do cases with Scotland Yard, and why you aren't in federal prison, is because of me?" The elder Holmes counters, slightly spinning his umbrella.

"Oh so-"

"Both of you gits just shut it!" John says, even though a smile has crept onto his face. Listening to the Holmes siblings bicker makes everything seem normal. "Can you two spend a day- or just a minute- not fighting with each other like school girls?"

A disgusted look comes up on Mycroft's face, probably from being compared to school girls.

"Now, when can I leave?" John asks, already tired of the hospital despite the pain coming back due to the reduced pain medications. "I really do hate being here."

"That's slightly worrisome, coming from a doctor, John." Sherlock replies, with one last nasty look toward his brother.

"Being the patient you twit." But when John sees his flatmate's face he just sighs. "Which of course, you already knew that's what I meant. Because 'you're the world's only consulting detective' which you never fail to remind me of."

"I don't think that is wise John, seeing as how you haven't been conscious for ten minutes straight yet." Mycroft adds in, flicking off invisible specks of dust and lint from his ever so expensive suit. "And you've just reduced the morphine being given to you -via IV might I remind you- so you're obviously in pain." Sherlock glances up to the cart next to John then makes a face when his eyes confirm the fact that Mycroft just stated.

"Really I just need to rest my body, which I can do just as fine at home. Maybe even better because I'm more comfortable there. I really am fine." He adds, to counter the disbelieving faces of the Holmes siblings.

And then to the surprise of everyone in the room, a new voice calls from behind Mycroft, "I know how you feel, mate."

"Greg! John says, happy to see for himself that the Detective Inspector was indeed alright.

"Your wife is shag-" Sherlock starts before Mycroft gives him a warning look and John clears his throat, also in warning.

"Good to see that you're up and awake. Well, not really up. But definitely awake." The DI says with a chuckle.

"Yes, I'm quite happy about that as well." John replies, ignoring the pounding in his chest. "Now, Mycroft, since you really are the British Government, care to help me get the discharge papers for the three of us?" Sure enough, the three stir crazy men look up to Mycroft like a mother with a jar of cookies.

With a fairly audible sigh, he replies with, "I will find your doctors and see what they advise. In the meantime I will advise you three to stop lurking around in alleyways. Even that

imbecile at Scotland Yard, Anderson, would know better. Ta" He finishes, turning to go back into the hall.

"Sherlock have you been complaining about Anderson to Mycroft even?" John asks, not really believing it himself.

"Oh of course." The detective replies, with a sly smile and a giggle. The other flatmate quickly joins in on the giggle, and looks away slightly blushing.

"You two are absolutely insufferable. I have no idea how your landlady deals with it." Greg says, who also can't help but smile.

~Someone's POV I honestly don't know~

Doctors and nurses all visited the hospital room throughout the day, until the three finally convinced their respective doctors to discharge them today. John made a mental note to thank Mycroft, because he knew for sure that normal patients would not get this luxury.

Molly, who had a key to the famous 221B Baker Street flat ("Just in case Sherlock, I wouldn't want you to um, well, get hurt from one of your experiments"), went and got clothes for Sherlock and John with the help of Mrs Hudson. Greg's wife begrudgingly got clothes for him, not without a few bickers, of course.

But by the end of the day the three were ready to leave. Stg Donovan and DI Dimmock came by before they left, asking and gathering for statements, as one should anticipate from the Yard.

Sherlock's statement got cut short, due to him pointing out that Donovan and Anderson were shagging again, which was no surprise to anyone. Mycroft had left after he 'helped' the hospital staff get discharge papers for the three. Anthea was to be seen lurking around the exits of the hospital, under instruction to not let Sherlock leave without proper authorization.

Although the last five days of John Watson's life was quite the blur, he was happy that he could finally settle into his far-from-normal routine again. All was swell.

There was also another person smiling at the fact that the three got away from the barn. But for very, very, different reasons.

Because, this was just the beginning of Consulting Criminal: Jim Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to my beautiful Amber
> 
> Also I hope that at least someone liked this story bc it got like three kudos lol


End file.
